


I Want To See My Blood on Your Teeth

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Enemy Lovers, Future Fic, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Without giving too much away - this is Jerome we're talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-11 21:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Over the ten years since his first imprisonment Jerome has slipped out of Arkham to enact his usual brand of chaos too many times to count. His breakout two weeks ago ended too early for his scheme to come to fruition, but his brief stop to wreak havoc on his favourite billionaire brought something spec-tacularto light.With this breakout he's going to do something about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses.  
> Gosh, I love these two.

Bruce’s blunt nails trace along the scars that encircle his face, a light scratch that’s barely perceptible over the skin that had been mutilated many times over. It sends a jolt up Jerome’s spine, however faint the contact. It makes him wish that Bruce’s touch would be more forceful. 

He’d never shy away from pain, especially not if his suffering was at the hand of the vision seated in his lap.

“You know,” Bruce begins, his voice as soft as his touch, “I once had a dream—a dying hallucination actually—that my face was cut off by someone.” His fingers dig in on either side of Jerome’s jaw, keeping him steady as Bruce stares at him. “When you woke up without a face were you worried that people wouldn’t realize it was you?”

Jerome’s gloved hands lay overtop of Bruce’s, and his smile is a sight to behold. Wretched and wicked, a series of grotesque histories written into the too-wide stretch of his lips.

“Bruce, darlin’, we’re both more than just pretty a face.” Jerome slides Bruce’s hands down, holding them over the delicate skin of his throat. Bruce’s fingers twitch, his grasp tightening ever so slightly, and Jerome’s breath hitches. “I’d recognize you, even if you were in an entirely different body. Wouldn’t you recognize me?”

There’s something twisted inside the both of them, dark and perilous. Bruce’s more subdued, Jerome’s more manic. But it’s there, an echo of themselves seeded inside of someone else. The very essence of them, which a more romantic person might refer to as a soul.

Twin-souls. 

Soul-mates.

Bruce’s grasp constricts further, Jerome’s heart pounds in his chest.

“I know you would,” he rasps, “we always will.”

Bruce brings their lips together and wildfire spreads behind Jerome’s closed eyes. Bruce bites at his bottom lip, snarls against his mouth, and Jerome breathes rapid, shallow breaths as he accepts the violent devotion with relish. His hands drift down from their place overtop of Bruce’s and they slide over his shoulders, up the back of his neck, into his dark hair. He tightly anchors his fingers in the softness and tilts his head to deepen the kiss. At the first touch of his tongue Bruce well and truly cuts off his air supply. Jerome’s heartbeat thunders in his ears as his chest starts to burn, but still he slides into the wet heat of Bruce’s mouth and lavishes his attention there, until black spots start forming in his peripheral vision and his grip on Bruce’s hair starts to go slack. 

Bruce pulls away, hands moving back up to cup Jerome’s face as he sucks in deep, greedy breaths.

“We always will,” Bruce agrees, and he presses their foreheads together. 

Two sides of the same coin; melting together and combining until only molten metal remained. There’s no heads or tails anymore, nothing to differentiate between the two. In this moment they are whole. 

Bruce leans back, his thumbs trailing along the darkened skin underneath Jerome’s eyes, and there’s something vicious simmering in his expression. A monster wishing to be let loose.

Jerome presses his face into Bruce’s neck and bites hard enough to draw blood.

Skin is unveiled to be scratched raw and bitten, hair is pulled and lips are bruised. And even when Bruce is naked on his back he doesn’t give in to Jerome easily, he makes him fight for every concession. It’s exhilarating.

He quickly strips out of his own shirt, keeping his gloves and pants on.

Jerome bites his way down Bruce’s sternum and grazes his teeth against his unguarded stomach while Bruce claws at his back, red welts surfacing in the wake of his nails. Perhaps he’ll scratch deep enough to leave scars. Something electric races up Jerome’s spine at the thought of being marked in such a way by Bruce, and he catches Bruce’s gaze with glinting eyes as he laps the flat of his tongue against the underside of Bruce’s cock.

Bruce’s fingers roughly tangle in his hair and Jerome moves to laugh against the soft skin of his thigh before leaving more secret blemishes for Bruce to see and feel and remember later.

Bite marks on the inside of his knees, blotchy bruises from sharp nips of teeth trailing upwards to the apex of his thighs. Bruce’s breath hitches with every gift he bestows upon him, and Jerome finds himself hoping that the handprints encircling his neck will also become a flare of colour against his flesh. 

Something to remember Bruce by, when they’re pulled apart again by the cruel hands of fate. Jerome has things to do, plans to enact, but his most recent escape wasn’t as elaborate as usual, the agony of being separated from his better-half so soon after they’d come to an understanding had been enough for him to focus on timing, not a demonstration. He’d pounced upon the first opportunity to break free, lacking the flamboyance and high body count that his escapes usually went hand in hand with. 

He remembers it raptly, his most recent vanishing act prior to this. He’d tracked Bruce down to his office in Wayne Enterprises and he hadn’t been particularly subtle about it, as was his way. Why bother when he knew that Bruce was smart enough to expect a personal attack nearly each time Jerome shook himself free of his chains? Their confrontations over the years had become some of the crowning moments of Jerome’s escapes, and he was eager to make a few more fun memories before circling back to his faithful followers that he’d left as lookouts on the first floor and getting the real party started. 

He’d been expecting security, bodyguards, and police with orders to shoot on sight. Maybe a flash-bang grenade or two, since Bruce was wont to carrying such amusing tricks up his sleeve when Jerome was after him.

He hadn’t been expecting Bruce creeping up behind him in the overwhelming darkness wearing night-vision goggles.

The memory of their ensuing fight is enough to make him salivate. Bruce had become stronger over the years, but Jerome had never been a slouch when it came to a brawl, and he had more than a few unfair advantages at his disposal.

Like shining a flashlight directly into Bruce’s eyes through the goggles.

In the present he digs his nails into the flesh of Bruce’s calves and pries his legs further apart. Bruce’s hands pull at his hair so firmly that he feels an ache in his scalp.

Startled, blinded, Bruce had thrown his weight into Jerome and knocked him down, sitting upon his chest like he had years ago in that maze of mirrors where Jerome’s obsession first truly took root. His hands scrambled to find Jerome’s wrists and pin him fully, but before he’d been able to Jerome had flipped him onto his back and tore the goggles off of his face.

Grappling was always such a rush. The taste of his own blood in his mouth a thrill. It wasn’t a surprise that his body accepted all of the stimuli from the attack and reacted with arousal, especially since it was Bruce he was fighting. His infatuation with the darkness in Bruce was always heightened when they tussled.

But it was a surprise, and perhaps the most astonishing gift Jerome had ever been presented with, when he’d moved against Bruce to put a knife to his neck and heard a choked-off moan at his actions. He’d allowed himself a single, sharp laugh at the humiliation on Bruce’s face before all of his attention had converged on the press of Bruce against him. The knowledge that he wasn’t alone in this particular brand of excitement.

He scrapes his bottom teeth against the vein on the underside of Bruce’s cock, and the disappointed sound Bruce makes when he moves up to press kisses to his abdomen is music to Jerome’s ears.

“Damn it, Jerome. If you drag this out much longer—”

Jerome shushes him. Then brings their lips together again. Bruce makes an irate, muffled sound into the kiss, but he melts into it soon enough. 

Their brief tango weeks ago hadn’t involved kissing. No, their first amorous encounter had been fumbling and quick. Jerome had been too wound up from the fight to put effort into nonsensical, sentimental gestures and though Bruce had been too gentle, all soft hands and hushed noises of encouragement as if to make up for the brutality he’d shown during their altercation, there had been nothing saccharine about their partnering from his end either. But still, the knowledge that a bit of rutting had been enough to make Bruce come in his pants like a teenager…

That had kept him warm in his cell at night for the past two weeks.

The wild goose chase he’s sent the fools trying to capture him on will be enough to keep them occupied until morning. It was good to have minions in low places. He’ll have hours to savor this experience, commit it to memory, and take his leave before someone got smart enough to remember that even when he had other plans in the works Jerome’s attention was often also fixated on Bruce.

Jerome going back to Arkham was a meaningless interruption; a short intermission between Act I and Act II. But Bruce’s involvement with him was something best kept under wraps.

He’s a cruel, vindictive man, and with anyone else he’d laugh at the idea of getting caught like this. A midnight partner who’d be dragged to Arkham alongside him, willing or not. They’d raise hell together on the inside whether due to fights between themselves or teaming up before busting out and painting Gotham red.

Bruce wouldn’t go to Arkham, though. He’s wealthy enough to go to one of those five-star asylums where the Doctors would actually care enough to try and properly ‘rehabilitate’ him. Maybe even somewhere out of the country, far beyond Jerome’s reach and influence.

And that wouldn’t do. Not at all.

He’s a selfish creature at heart. Bruce has been his; his target, his foe, since they first crossed paths ten years ago. Now Bruce is his in a whole new sense, and Jerome isn’t going to let anything change that.

Target, foe, paramour. They’ll draw each other’s blood and kiss the open wounds.

He bites Bruce’s lip, just shy of breaking skin. Bruce shudders and squirms against him, rolling his hips against Jerome’s abdomen in a desperate bid for friction.

“Fuck,” he hisses as Jerome leans back. His hair is tousled, eyes glossy, lips kiss-bruised, neck still sluggishly bleeding from Jerome’s first bite. He makes such a pretty picture.

Jerome is definitely going to keep him.

He presses his leather-clad palm firmly against Bruce’s dick, not moving, just giving him something to grind against. He watches with a grin as Bruce rocks against him; a flush high on his cheeks, his eyes fluttering halfway shut.

“I’d heard that you were turning into a playboy, but you sure do react like a man who, haa, doesn’t get his itch scratched very often. Those soft socialite girls not do it for ya?”

The flush on Bruce’s face darkens.

“That’s okay. You don’t need them anymore anyways, right, darlin’?” Jerome presses the heel of his hand down and watches in rapt fascination as Bruce comes apart underneath him. The muscles in his thighs shake as his legs clamp around Jerome’s arm, his back bows, his mouth falls open with a sound that Jerome immediately commits to memory.

Afterwards he lays panting, watching with a dazed expression as Jerome brings his gloved hand up to his mouth and licks the cum off of his fingers.

“We’re off to a good start,” he says, smacking his lips together in a purposefully obnoxious way. “You’re so cute, Brucie.” He draws a switchblade from his pocket while Bruce is still too stunned to notice. “I can’t wait to see what other noises I can wrangle from you.”

“I’m not cute,” Bruce mutters with a half-hearted glare. “And as for noises—" Jerome flicks his wrist, unsheathing the blade. Bruce stares at the gleaming metal, and Jerome can see him stop breathing for a second. “Oh.”

Jerome chuckles and leans down to lap his tongue against Bruce’s soft cock.

“Jerome,” he hisses, “don’t—it’s sensitive, you ass!” He roughly pushes Jerome away. “Let me recover first.”

“You’re a young man,” Jerome assures him with a smirk, “you’ll be hard again in no time. Trust me, the things I’m going to do to you tonight…” He rests the tip of his blade against Bruce’s hipbone. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Bruce clamps his thighs on either side of Jerome and flips them, uncaring that his actions cause the knife to dig shallowly into his skin.

On his back underneath Bruce once again. He must say he’s certainly not put-off by the situation. He stretches out and grins a wide, toothy smile at the young man who’s always keeping him on his toes. Bruce regards him coolly, but the flush that still hasn’t completely dispersed ruins the effect of nonchalance he’s going for. 

“Before any more fun happens you are taking the rest of your clothes off. Now.”

“Might be a bit difficult with you on top of me.”

Bruce settles one hand firmly against his throat. Jerome feels the bubbly laughter building up in his chest fizzle out as something stronger sparks inside of him, Bruce’s action fanning the banked coals of his desire and causing fire to spread through his veins. Bruce leans forward, pressing down with just a little more weight, and runs his tongue from the corner of Jerome’s mouth up to where the scar ends. 

“I’m sure you can manage,” he whispers hotly in Jerome’s ear. 

Jerome cants his hips upward, Bruce shifting with him to keep his balance, and uses one hand to tug his pants and boxers down his legs before kicking everything off the rest of the way.

The gloves stay on. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind. He gives Jerome’s neck one final squeeze before he slides down Jerome’s body in order to fully take in the sight of him. Jerome lets him, fair is fair, after all.

As Bruce glances over each part of him his hand comes to rest over the wound on his hip, slicking a few of his fingers with the fresh blood welling up there. No discomfort passes over his face, but a thoughtful look does emerge when he notices how focused Jerome is on the digits. He crawls back up Jerome’s body, until he’s sitting astride on Jerome’s chest, and he rests his bloody fingers against Jerome’s parted lips.

Jerome sucks them into his mouth like he’s been dying for a taste. Even when all the blood is gone he continues to run his tongue over Bruce’s clean fingertips. He watches with great satisfaction as Bruce’s pupils expand while his eyes are riveted on his mouth. When Bruce eventually pulls his fingers free Jerome’s not sure what he wants to offer Bruce more, the careful cut and exquisite agony of his knife, or the warm and wet heat of his mouth around something far more sensitive than Bruce’s fingers. 

He doesn’t get the opportunity to present either option, though, because Bruce moves back down Jerome’s body to lay between his legs and enact plans of his own. Namely; taking the head of Jerome’s cock in his mouth.

He wraps a hand around the base and runs his tongue along the slit, slightly clumsy in his ministrations. Jerome is sure that this is the first time Bruce has paid attention to a dick other than his own, so he’s certainly not complaining that he’s taking his time and getting used to the feeling of it in his mouth. If anything, the fact that he’s Bruce’s first makes something possessive curl euphorically in his gut. 

He wonders how many firsts they can have together. How many firsts he can steal without remorse.

Bruce pulls away to press a kiss to the base, brushing his lips against the red hair there, and he looks up at Jerome from under his dark lashes to gauge his reaction.

Jerome anchors a hand in his hair. The knife lays beside him, forgotten for now.

“Have you been imagining what this would be like,” Jerome asks as Bruce skims his lips up the entire length, bestowing soft little kisses that make his hair stand on end, “Fantasizing about how it would feel to wrap your lips around me?” His fingers dig harder in Bruce’s hair. 

Bruce locks eyes with him again but doesn’t answer. Instead he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the tip, tracing his tongue in a quick circle before he opens wider and begins taking in more, pausing a few inches from the top and pulling up before sinking back down again. Jerome can hear him breathing heavily through his nose, and he makes such sweet sounds every time he pulls up and drags his tongue along the underside. He begins to use his hand, lazily working the flesh that he can’t take into his mouth. 

Only Bruce Wayne could look so good while sucking cock. 

Well, maybe Jerome is biased.

“Wish I had a camera to record this,” he murmurs. “Gorgeous. You love this, don’t you?”

Bruce hums around him and his hips shift as he starts grinding himself against the sheets. He’s getting all worked up all over again. He might have an oral fixation; Jerome is definitely going to try out some other fun things to test out that theory later. 

“The next time I corner you in your office this is where we’ll start. Well, after a bit of our brand of foreplay. You really set the bar high last time, Bruce.” Jerome chokes back a moan at the sensation of Bruce’s teeth scraping against him. “After we’ve tussled, and I’ve managed to disarm you through terribly underhanded means, I’m going to sit in that fancy chair of yours and make you kneel in front of me. I hope you don’t think I’ll be this passive the second time around.” He can be gentle this first time. Gentle for him, anyways.

“And maybe after, if you’ve been good, I’ll let you come. You’d be good for me, wouldn’t you doll?”

Bruce pulls away fully, lips spit-slick and puffy, and he runs his hand over the entire length of Jerome’s cock.

“Jerome,” he rasps. It’s almost unholy in how sexy it is, “if you don’t shut up I’m going to gag you.”

Promises, promises. 

“Is the sound of my voice turning you on too much?”

Bruce’s free hand clamps down on his hip, his nails digging into skin hard enough to draw blood.

“That’s a yes,” Jerome says delightedly. Bruce doesn’t bother answering, just puts his mouth back to work.

“I bet you’re absolutely soaking those sheets underneath you. You’re fucking squirming against them just like you were squirming against my hand. It’s too bad I can’t see that pretty pink dick of yours,” he babbles, arm flinging out to the side to fumble with the knife. “I wanted to have a taste of it for myself. But you’re so greedy, Bruce. You’re too used to getting your way.”

Saliva leaks from the corners of Bruce’s mouth, coating his hand, dampening the hair at the base of Jerome’s cock. His eyes are closed, and the wet sounds he’s making sends sparks down Jerome’s spine. Pleasure is coiling up tightly within him, a steadily building pressure that’s already difficult to contain.

He presses the flat of the blade against Bruce’s cheek.

Bruce’s eyes snap open. He looks blissed out. They’re both so close to the edge now. 

“You going to come with your mouth on me?” Jerome feels out of breath. Feels like he’s on a precipice and Bruce is about to push him from a great height. “That’s what you want, isn’t it darlin’?”

Bruce moans, resting his cheek lightly against the knife. 

“Come on then, Bruce, baby.” Jerome drags the blade across his skin. Not hard enough to scar, but enough to cut flesh. Enough to sting. Bruce’s eyelashes flutter at the sensation. “Let it out.”

Blood drips down Bruce’s cheek, catching the corner of his mouth. It mixes with saliva to become a translucent smear, but Bruce must be able to taste it, the coppery tang of his own blood mixed with Jerome’s precum. He takes Jerome deeper than before, keeping his eyes open. Jerome can feel his throat constricting, trying to resist the intrusion, but Bruce never did know when to quit.

All the pressure building up within Jerome releases in successive waves. His muscles go tense, then lax, then tense again. His knees draw up around Bruce’s head, his eyes clench shut as everything becomes too much, every sense he has overloading at once. 

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. The name rings through his mind, falls from his lips, like it’s the only thing that matters. He starts to go slack, the pleasure receding to a content buzz, and he sinks back into the bed.

Bruce pulls away, spit and cum dripping from his open mouth onto Jerome’s pelvis. He looks at the resulting mess with a frown and furrowed eyebrows.

“Was I supposed to swallow?” His voice is gravely. Jerome could listen to him talk for ages. “This seems really dirty.”

Jerome snorts at his word choice. Then his mind snags on the fact that Bruce doesn’t know, one way or another, what he was ‘supposed to’ do.

Models, actresses, socialites, heiresses; Bruce hasn’t been left wanting for willing partners over the years. Jerome has even interrupted a few dates with some of his escapes, so he knows that even if Bruce’s playboy reputation is a tabloid fabrication he has at the very least been going out. Had none of his partners ever given him a damn blowjob? 

Jerome mentally adds letting Bruce fuck his face onto his ever-growing to-do list. Then he tries to recall the question that had sent him down this train of thought in the first place.

Swallowing. Right. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. And it’s not dirty, it’s us.” Mixed together, unable to be separated. A perfect analogy for them, really.

Bruce makes a doubtful noise but crawls back up to lay beside him. Jerome turns so that he can run his tongue along the cut on Bruce’s cheek and then draws him back into a deep kiss, lapping into his mouth without a care.

“You’re kind of gross,” Bruce tells him when they break apart. Jerome chortles.

“You love it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Post-orgasm make-out sessions are quickly becoming one of Jerome’s favorite things; it’s right up there with spraying citizens with his Joker Venom and setting things ablaze. With their baser desires currently sated he and Bruce have a chance to really get a feel for one another. There’s not as much biting or brute force, but Jerome can put that aside for now in favor of drawing out the soft, breathy noises that Bruce makes into their kisses. He sounds content, like there’s no one else he’d rather be doing this with.

It’s a huge boost to Jerome’s already sizable ago.

Minutes stretch into a quarter of an hour, and hands that could break his bones cup his face gently as Bruce tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Maybe the tenderness Bruce had showcased in his office two weeks ago wasn’t just out of a misplaced desire to make up for Jerome’s split lip and bruised ribs. Maybe once the violence has seeped out of him something soft is leftover. A relic of the days before he’d had to learn to fight to survive the clutches of this city.

Jerome thought something like this would be boring—too grossly sentimental, not nearly enough adrenalin, too much of a waste of time—but Bruce has been kissing him like it’s something he’s been wanting to do for years and he must admit, that makes him a little more open to it.

He can take Bruce’s affectionate attentions just as well as Bruce can take his violent ones.

“So,” he breathes against Bruce’s lips, “how long have you had the hots for me?”

Bruce rolls his eyes and huffs. “I’ll never tell.”

“Ah, don’t be like that, baby,” he coos, “you know I’ll just wring the answer out of you sooner or later.”

“You’re welcome to try.” Bruce darts in, teeth digging sharply into Jerome’s bottom lip before pulling back. The tease. “But we both know that out of the two of us the one who can’t stop talking is not me.”

“And what if I held my knife to your pretty throat? Would you tell me then?”

Bruce smiles, tilting his head to expose his neck. There’s a scar there; faded and barely visible after a decade. Jerome’s first of many attempts on Bruce’s life, back when Bruce was just a boring stepping stone, before Jerome saw in him that which was mirrored in himself.

He presses his lips to the mark and Bruce sighs, his hands moving to cradle the back of Jerome’s head. He trails more kisses down the column of Bruce’s throat until his lips press against the dried blood of his first bite. He clamps his mouth around it and sucks, re-opening the wound. Bruce hisses, hands digging into Jerome’s scalp, and pulls him closer.

There are other criminals out there—from aggrandized self-made ‘super-villains’ to the lowest of Jerome’s lackeys—who’d love to bathe in Bruce Wayne’s blue blood, but they’ll never get the chance because Jerome is going to lay claim to each and every drop. If he has to murder a few nuisances to prove a point, so be it, it will just make Bruce all the more violent the next time they cross paths. 

He hums lowly to himself, pleased, and eventually pulls away from Bruce’s bruising skin. He’s already so marked up, and Jerome can’t wait for him to fully heal so that he can be marked again. A perfect, nearly-blank canvas for Jerome to carve his affections into. 

Jerome casts a glance at the clock in Bruce’s room. Another two hours, maybe three, and someone’s going to start wondering why Jerome hasn’t shown his face yet. It likely won’t be too long after that that someone figures out that it might be a good idea to check to make sure Bruce Wayne is still breathing.

He’ll probably end up getting dragged back to Arkham by sunrise, but that pitiful excuse for a cage was never able to keep him for too long. And his next escape is going to be much more ingeniously planned.

“Hmm, let’s have one more,” he murmurs before he bites one of Bruce’s nipples, smirking when Bruce jerks at the unexpected sensation.

“One more—Jerome, I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to get hard again right away.” He takes his gloves off, finally getting his bare hands on that soft skin, mapping out the scars he’s left as well as ones he doesn’t recognize. “And if you happen to have a dry orgasm, well, I’ll be taking that as a compliment and thinking about it every. Single. Night. That we’re parted.”

Bruce looks at him, possibly trying to gauge how serious he is, and whatever motivation he sees behind Jerome’s eyes is enough to make him relax back into the pillows.

“I have something in top the drawer.”

Jerome shifts slightly to reach the bedside table and is tickled pink to find a bottle of lube and a box of condoms, which he quickly snatches up.

“Oh Brucie, were you expecting to have some fun tonight?” 

Bruce regards him with an all-knowing look.

“When I heard on the evening news that you’d broken out I thought it would be best to be prepared.”

“And what about this?” He shakes the bottle, as if to highlight the fact that it was only half-full. It is absolutely not a last-minute purchase. “Have you been thinking of me?”

“Yes.”

The straightforward answer makes Jerome cackle.

“Good.” From now on Bruce would think of nothing but him, he was sure.

He scrapes his teeth down Bruce’s chest, pinching Bruce’s other nipple and rolling it between his fingers, laughing again at the way Bruce reacts like a jolt of electricity has just gone through him. He bites at the skin overtop of Bruce’s hipbones as he smears some cold slick on two of his fingers.

“Relax for me, darlin’. I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he vows with a lascivious smile. He kisses along Bruce’s pelvis, ignoring his cock for now, and he brings his hand up to trail across Bruce’s perineum, grazing across the sensitive skin there as he reaches further back until his fingers are tracing circles and Bruce is shuddering at his touch.

“Come on, Jerome.”

“What’s the magic word?”

Bruce holds Jerome’s face in his hands, just like he had earlier in the evening. They lock eyes and Jerome continues to draw idle loops with his wet fingers.

“I’m not saying any words that a magician would say during a magic trick, Jerome.”

“Spoil sport.”

“Jerome, darling,” Bruce sighs like a lovelorn maiden while his nails start to dig roughly into scar tissue. “Please get on with it.”

“Not what I was going for, but since you asked so nicely...”

The first finger slides inside much easier than expected. Jerome raises his eyebrows at Bruce and the younger man easily interprets the unspoken question.

“I wasn’t expecting nearly this amount of foreplay, so I figured it would be for the best if I took some initiative,” he answers with a shrug, hands drifting down the sides of Jerome’s face before falling away. 

“Oh, Brucie, baby.” He pushes further inside. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll give you a rough, quick fuck next time.” He pulls back, and the next time he pushes in he uses two. Bruce shifts underneath him, legs spreading wider.

“Next time I might be the one fucking you.”

Jerome closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it. Pinned down with Bruce at this back. Bruce trailing rough, biting kisses down his spine, one hand wrapping around Jerome’s throat. All that power and intensity focused on him.

“If that’s what you want; all you have to do is ask.” He presses an overly wet kiss to Bruce’s dick and crooks his fingers. Bruce’s hips surge off the bed and a strangled sound gets caught in his throat.

“Now now, don’t hold anything back. I wanna hear everything.” He presses into Bruce more firmly. “Give me something good to remember you by.”

“More than what I’ve given you already?” Bruce gazes down at him, eyes half-shut. He licks his lips and Jerome wants to kiss him again. “And you call me greedy.”

“You know me; I always want more. And you’ve woken up something ravenous inside of me.” He blows a current of air over the wet skin he’d left behind and Bruce’s entire body shivers. “Your reactions are so cute.” He pulls his fingers out to slick them up with more lubrication and the wet, easy glide as he pushes back inside is hotter than anything has a right to be.

“Opening right up for me, aren’t you?” He maneuvers one of Bruce’s legs over his shoulder. “On a scale of one to ten, one being exactly what you were expecting and ten being what you’re going to touch yourself to thoughts of whenever I’m not around, how am I doing for enacting the fantasy you had when you were playing with your ass?” He crooks his fingers again and finds himself captivated by the rush of curses that fall from Bruce’s lips. “Maybe we’ve reached an eleven?”

“You really never stop talking,” Bruce pants, sounding like he’s run a marathon. “And honestly? I think we’ve hit twelve.” 

Jerome is going to assume twelve means a resurgence of wet dreams and erections at inappropriate times, such as whenever he takes over the local news or radio stations for one of his special broadcasts. He’s absolutely charmed. 

“I only stop talking when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

Speaking of which.

Bruce’s cock, newly flushed with blood and leaking pearly fluid from the tip is. Right. There.

He takes it in his mouth as he adds a third finger.

The sound that falls from Bruce’s lips as his back bows is something like an incredulous laugh that morphs so prettily into an encouraging moan. He throws his other leg over Jerome’s shoulder and his hands scramble over his neck and back, trying to find an ideal place to rest.

“Jerome, fuck.”

He thinks they may have just reached thirteen. He hums, pleased, and Bruce whines.

Jerome pulls away long enough to rasp, “Come on, darlin’, fuck my mouth. I can take it.”

Bruce makes a nonsensical noise and Jerome laughs as his hands fumble into his hair before pressing him down. 

Bruce’s thighs are like a vice around him, his grip on Jerome’s short hair unwavering, and he pushes up into Jerome’s mouth before falling back on his fingers like he’ll never be able to get enough of either.

Jerome’s spoiling him, really.

But Bruce could probably use some spoiling, considering the likelihood of his needs not being met by the ladies whose company he’d been favoring before they’d come to their understanding.

Jerome relaxes his throat and lets Bruce take whatever he needs.

His mind goes curiously static-y at the joint sensation of Bruce fucking up into his mouth and down onto his fingers. Bruce isn’t playing at being gentle any more, and Jerome loves it, loves the way he can barely breathe. It makes him reminisce about the feeling of Bruce’s hands around his throat, makes him wonder if Bruce would ever cut his breathing off for long enough for him to go completely limp. If he got him angry enough to unleash some of those lovely darker tendencies then maybe…

“Jerome.” His ankles cross over themselves at Jerome’s back. He’s trembling. “Jerome, I think I—”

Jerome pulls his fingers out and he wraps his hand tightly around the base of Bruce’s cock. Bruce’s breath hitches in a sob as Jerome extracts himself from his weakening hold. 

Two weeks ago they’d been face to face when Bruce came apart under him for the first time. Jerome thinks it’s only fitting for them to be so again while taking this ten-steps further.

That, and he can’t stand the idea of not seeing Bruce’s face the first time they really fuck.

Next time Bruce can do whatever he wants to him, but this first time? It’s Jerome running the show.

He tears a packet open with his teeth and rolls the condom on while Bruce tries to catch his breath underneath him. Colour is high on his cheeks, creeping up his ears and down his neck. Jerome grabs a pillow and lifts Bruce’s hips up to place it underneath him, getting the angle just right.

“You ready, doll?” He rolls his hips forward languidly, coating himself in the slick that he’d been spreading. Bruce’s legs lock around his hips with as much force as they’d locked around his head.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his nails tearing an agonizing line down Jerome’s back even as he leans in to bestow the softest kiss yet to Jerome’s smiling mouth. “Please, Jerome.”

Jerome’s heart does a funny little skip in his chest.

He takes himself in hand and lines himself up with the wet heat, taking his time to press the head of his cock inside even as Bruce urges him to go faster, digging into the skin over Jerome’s shoulder blades deeply enough that he can feel blood start to push through his torn flesh.

Bruce is tight and hot and perfect, and it’s like—

“We were made for each other,” Jerome says in a hush as he draws back slightly in spite of Bruce’s snarl and scrabbling hands. It’s almost enough to make him believe in destiny. They could have been doing this for years.

They’ll have to make up for lost time.

He inches forward, excruciatingly slow, and Bruce curses and praises him in equal measure as Jerome revels in the sight below him. He pauses once he’s fully inside, his breaths falling quick and shallow from his open mouth.

Perfection. That’s what this is.

“Jerome, I swear—If you don’t start moving I am going to flip you onto your back and tie you up and—”

“Shhh. I told you I’d take care of you, Bruce.” He stays still for several more moments, because tormenting Bruce is just as fun now as it has always been. “But I do like the way you think.” He leans in to press their lips together. Bruce kisses back and bites at his mouth, and Jerome’s eyelashes flutter. “You can tie me up and ride me some other time.” He pulls back a few inches and drives his hips forward, the possessive feeling inside of him unfurling even more at the way Bruce moves with him.

He finds a rhythm and Bruce matches it without a second thought. Jerome’s hands fist into the bedding on either side of Bruce’s head while Bruce continues to dig into his shoulder blades like a wordless demand for more, harder. He thinks that his blood must be slicking up Bruce’s fingers, just like Bruce’s own blood had before, and his muddled mind takes a moment to wonder if Bruce will lick the blood off of his hand when they’re all done.

Fuck, he hopes so.

He moves one hand between them and rests it on top of Bruce’s cock, too focused on the movement of his own hips to do anything but offer a little extra pressure. Bruce’s legs tighten around him, forcing him so close that they may as well be melded together. One of his hands moves to press against Jerome’s cheek and guide him into a kiss that’s more like a punch to his mouth than anything romantic. 

Jerome takes it all willingly, murmuring whatever comes to mind against Bruce’s mouth. Words slip past his lips without thought, said and forgotten as soon as they’re open to air, and Bruce lays one last kiss on the corner of his mouth before he turns his attention elsewhere. He bites Jerome’s neck, teeth tearing into flesh, giving him a matching mark and Jerome pulls him closer, closer, closer, until no space is left between them.

Lightning flashes behind his eyes as the pain and pleasure and knowledge that Bruce has marked him rises, flash-flooding his senses, overwhelming him and punching all the air from his lungs and leaving him suspended on the edge of something monumental.

“Jerome,” Bruce hisses.

His eyes flutter open to see his blood on Bruce’s lips.

He feels a warm, wet rush against his palm. 

He clumsily brings their lips together again, the taste of his own blood in both of their mouths, and he tips; freefalling from the height of the buildup between them, his senses surging one last time and leaving him feeling hypersensitive and raw until the input becomes too much, and everything goes hazy.

Over the too-loud beat of his heart he can hear Bruce call his name, can feel him shudder in the aftershock of release, and as his awareness drifts back into something manageable he finds himself sinking down, trapping Bruce between him and the bed, too content to consider moving to the side.

He props his chin up on one hand and lazily watches Bruce catch his breath. Bruce’s hands slowly drop away from him and he folds his red-tipped fingers together on his abdomen as he gazes up at Jerome.

“You’re more considerate than I thought you’d be,” he states bluntly, out of breath. Jerome huffs in amusement.

“You’re lucky I like you so much, or else I might have felt offended by that.” He watches eagerly as Bruce separates his hands and starts to move one—

Not up to his lips for a taste, but reaching out to Jerome. Bruce trails his bloody fingers gently across the tender skin of his throat. 

“It looks like it’s going to bruise,” he says. He doesn’t sound very sorry. 

Jerome kisses him again.

“Good.”


End file.
